


Made For Each Other (As The Stars Were Made For The Sky)

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Contentment, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Long Days, Love, M/M, Old Injuries, Sympathetic Beds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a Five-Sentence Fic Challenge, for the prompt: <i>James/Michael or Michael/James, h/c, long day</i>. After filming the XMFC beach scene, James’s knee—canonically, after all, injured during the shooting of <i>Wanted</i>—is bothering him, and Michael worries a lot, and tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made For Each Other (As The Stars Were Made For The Sky)

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of The Monkees’ “We Were Made For Each Other”, this time.

“I feel like an old person,” James says, half-joking, and Michael shakes his head, not looking up, running his hands over James’s leg, that disloyal joint, tight muscles that begrudgingly, slowly, ease toward regained flexibility, under his touch.

“You’re not an old person,” he says back, “you’re too damn dedicated, and it was too long a day for you,” and determinedly _doesn’t_ think about the way that, after hours of beach-coated tackles, sun and sand and rocks and the two of them crashing into each other and rolling over and over again across hard ground, James’d reached for his offered hand and tried to stand up, and collapsed into his arms.

He’d been shouting for help even before James could protest being scooped off the sand—“No, stop that, I’m all right, I feel ridiculous, put me down, I didn’t mean put me down next to the _ambulance_ , Michael, I’m _fine_!”—and even though James _was_ fine, reassurances delivered far too calmly in Michael’s opinion by their unflappable on-set paramedics, trained fingers checking over every inch of the old injury and informing James that he’d only put too much stress on his knee but he should be fit for filming tomorrow, Michael’d seen the split-second fear in blue eyes, when he hadn’t been able to stand.

“This is helping,” he says now, and it’s half a question, a plea partly directed at his bed, enormous and pillowy and trying its best to cuddle James into health; partly directed at his own hands, where they’re worriedly, guiltily, gently, attempting to massage away a fraction of the soreness; partly directed at James, sprawled naked and comfortable across said enormous bed, smiling and temptingly freckled and sinfully relaxed everywhere except that one, particular, frightening place.

“ _You’re_ helping,” James agrees, from the depths of the pillows, “and I love you,” and, because James can always, always tell what he’s thinking when it’s important, “and I didn’t not-tell you on purpose, I tell you everything, you know that, I only forgot because nothing hurt until I tried to put weight on it, and I’m sorry about that, and I really will be fine tomorrow, and also it’s _not_ your fault, it honestly was just the long day, you didn’t throw me into a rock or anything, and if _I_ didn’t notice earlier _you_ certainly couldn’t’ve known, so stop being internally melodramatic and come here and kiss me,” and Michael finds himself smiling, helplessly, besottedly, desperately in love, and when he kisses those lips they’re warm and sweet and taste like the return of stability to his world.


End file.
